Monday Morning
by Inglorious DMK
Summary: Something was very, very wrong, and Shuichi knew at that moment that nothing would ever be right again. DEATHFIC. Discontinued.
1. Part One

Title: Monday Morning (1/?)

Author: Kameko-chan

Pairings: Strong Hiroshi Shuichi friendship, Hiro x ?, various canon

Warnings: Deathfic

Notes: Inspired by the Prozzak song of the same name

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_What do ya do when your best friend goes one day_

_Somebody takes their life away_

_Don't want to wake up... Monday morning_

-Prozzak, 'Monday Morning'

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Something wasn't right.

That was the thought that kept going through Shuichi's mind that night. It wasn't something he could see right before him, it wasn't the fact that Yuki's cigarettes lay untouched, for once, or that the blonde hadn't hermitted himself away with his computer to write his smutty works. There were plenty of domestic inconsistencies tonight, but no, this was something bigger, something important, and, infuriatingly, something that Shuichi couldn't put his finger on. He didn't know how he knew that all was not well, he just _knew_, and that was enough. All evening, worry gnawed in the pit of his stomach as he tried to figure out what had triggered this feeling. As the night grew later, Shuichi grew more silent as the feeling of _wrong _intensified.

Yuki tried to ignore Shuichi's odd behavior, tried to take advantage of the fabled state of quiet that he'd forgotten actually existed. He tried, but alas, he failed. Shuichi was never this quiet, and even though he'd never, _ever_ say so, it had Yuki worried (just a little, mind you). Sighing, he set aside his novel and turned to the pink-haired boy beside him. "Well," he asked, irritated, "what is it?"

Shuichi turned his head slowly to the left looking faintly surprised, as though he'd forgotten that the other man was there. "Something's wrong."

Yuki's fist clenched slightly as he resisted the urge to smack Shuichi upside the head. "And what, pray tell, is that?"

"I don't know."

Sometimes, Yuki thought, Shuichi made no sense at all. Deciding to wait until the brat stopped being evasive (after all, he _always _ended up hearing all about everyone and every thing that had any impact on Shuichi whatsoever. Sometimes he wished Shu came with a mute button) he went back to his book while Shuichi continued to brood.

Something wasn't right, and he didn't know what, and it was pissing him right off. Maybe he'd forgotten something. Yes, that would make sense, he was very forgetful sometimes. But what could it be? Ah, wait, he knew what he'd do; he'd ask Hiro. Hiro was sure to know what it was; after all, Hiro knew everything. Well, maybe not _everything_, but everything to do with Shuichi and his cracked-out head. The boy grinned in triumph at finally thinking of a course of action that seemed somewhat productive, and he didn't give Yuki a second thought as he crawled over him to reach the phone (he did note, however, that Yuki did not shove him off. Victory!). Hiro was supposed to be visiting his mother that day, so Shuichi dialed the number he'd dialed a million times throughout their school years and waited patiently for an answer at the other end.

After twelve rings, Shuichi finally hung up.

"There's no answer," he said quietly, not really caring if Yuki heard him or not. "There's always an answer." Something wasn't right. Oh god, something wasn't right at all. Shuichi turned to look at Yuki. The tawny-haired man had flipped on the television, turned it to the news channel. His eyes were wide in disbelief.

Wrong, wrong, wrong.

Shuichi walked towards the illuminated box in a daze, touched his fingers to the familiar motorcycle depicted there, but it was a wreck, why was it a wreck? What was that dark stain on the road?

There was a pretty young woman with a microphone standing before the carnage, voice bland and unfeeling. The perfect reporter. Was she even thinking of how her words would impact someone's life? Did she know how that clinical expression would haunt Shuichi's nightmares until the day he died?

News had no to be the body of Hiroshi Nakano, guitarist for the popular band Bad Luck. He was dead upon arrival, and police..."

Blood, dear God, it was blood staining the road, and it was everywhere. Or maybe it just seemed that way to Shuichi. Maybe the blood stands out more when you know who it came from.

Shuichi slid slowly to the floor, still staring at the television, unable to tear his eyes away from the spot where his best friend in the world had taken his last breath. He was barely aware of Yuki roughly shaking his shoulders and yelling into his ear. Shuichi's whole world had become the flickering box.

Mrs. Nakano was crying, and the whole world watched her mourn.

Something was very, very wrong, and Shuichi knew at that moment that nothing would ever be right again.

TBC

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This is my first fic in the Gravi fandom, so if you're going to pelt the newbie with anything, please let it be constructive criticism?


	2. Part Two

Title: Monday Morning (2/?)

Author: Kameko-chan

Pairings: Strong Hiroshi Shuichi friendship, Hiro x ?, various canon

Warnings: Deathfic (Well, maybe 'character death' is more accurate. I don't know.)

Notes: Inspired by the Prozzak song of the same name

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Hiro died on a Sunday. Stupid day to die, really, nothing interesting ever happens on a Sunday. 'Famous guitarist smeared across the road' is more suited for the Friday night news, don't you think? No one wants to hear that their best friend died on a Sunday. Then again, there isn't really any day where that's good news, is there?

The funeral was on a Tuesday, more than a week later. Tuesday had always been their favorite night when they were in high school—cheap night, the one night where they could afford to go out to eat, and even to the occasional movie. They shouldn't have buried him on their night, Shuichi thought, any night but that.

Everyone showed up, of course, dressed in black like good little funeral goers. Mrs. Nakano had wanted a small, private funeral, something traditional, but Hiro had been a star and stars can't do anything privately. All of Nittle Grasper was there, and so were K and Sakano and Suguru and everyone that Hiro had ever known, it seemed. Yuki had even shown, for once following Shuichi not out of nagging, but worry. This was the first time in a week that Shuichi had set foot out of his room.

Yuki didn't like this feeling. He didn't like knowing that his lover was slowly dying over his friend's death. He hadn't liked walking into that room day after day, trying to get Shu out of bed. He hadn't liked that dull, lifeless gaze that greeted him. He hadn't liked realizing that without Hiro, Shuichi felt like there was nothing to live for.

Yuki discovered that he hated feeling like he didn't matter.

Shuichi had dressed in white. He stood out among the gloomy sea of black, of course, but he didn't much care. Shuichi hated wearing black, it made you feel sad and he already felt like dying himself. Besides, Hiro had been there when he bought this outfit. That had been a good day, they'd had fun running around the mall in their anti-fangirl disguises and hiding from the paparazzi. Hiro had been there the last time he wore this outfit, too; they'd been lying on the floor in Hiro's room and gorging themselves on pocky. Who would he do that with now? Shuichi sniffed the sleeve and could have sworn he detected his best friend's lingering scent, but surely that was his imagination.

Everyone stopped to talk to him. 'Sorry for your loss', 'I know how close you were', endlessly bland, fill-in-the-blank condolences. Shuichi nodded and thanked them, but inside he was screaming, 'Stop, please just stop! I don't want to hear any more!'

Eventually, he found Mrs. Nakano. They stood opposite one another for a few minutes, each unsure of what to do, what to say. How do you great your dead best friend's mother at his funeral? How do you greet your dead son's best friend?

The answer, of course, is that you don't; you just cry. They collapsed into each other's arms, sobbing. He cried and she cried, and Shuichi detected the familiar aroma of Hiro's childhood home wafting about her and wept all the more. There were precious few who really shared the grief of Hiroshi's death, who were truly ripped apart by his absence, and so both took comfort in the fact that finally, there was someone who knew how they felt.

The funeral was a dull affair. A man stood beside the coffin and droned on about Hiro's life and how it had been cut tragically short, how he had such a great future and oh, wasn't it a shame that he'd never get to see it. As if anyone there who cared needed reminding. It was hard to pay attention to someone who simply rattled off the same thing he'd said a million times before, knowing nothing about the person he talked about other than his name and enough attributes to make the oratory seem personalized. It was like an insult to his friend's memory, letting this stranger speak of him at his interment. Shuichi found himself dozing off more than once; this was simply not his way to mourn.

'At least,' Yuki thought dryly as Shu napped on his shoulder for the third time, 'it's a change from crying.'

After the eulogies were done, the guests were invited to view Hiro's body one last time before the cremation—that, at least, his parents had insisted on; the thought of her son residing in the cold ground for eternity was too much for Hiro's poor mother to bear. When it was their row's turn to walk past the casket, Yuki stood up and offered his hand to Shuichi in a rare gesture of concern.

Shuichi, however, would not take it. He was rooted to his seat, eyes wide, gripping the edges of the cheap folding chair so hard his knuckles were as white as his conspicuous outfit. "I can't," he whispered thickly, his voice cracked and rusty from a week of crying and disuse.

Yuki frowned. "And why not?"

"I can't see him like that!" the younger man squeaked, "I don't want to remember him that way!"

"You're just scared. Scared of the dead body." The condescending grin was back, not that it ever really went away. "Worried he'll jump out and bite you?"

It hurt Yuki to say such things to him, and Shuichi knew that it hurt, but he never asked why the callous author did it anyways. "I am not scared of the body," he retorted, bringing his legs up and wrapping his arms around his knees in a gesture of misery. "I just don't want my last memory of him to be _that_."

"And bits and pieces of him scattered all over the road on the evening news is so much better?" The blonde shook his head in disgust. "Do what you want, brat. I'm going to pay my respects—I wouldn't want to regret anything later."

_Damn Yuki_, Shuichi thought bitterly as his boyfriend strolled calmly up to the casket. He stood, shakily, and shuffled after him. _Damn him for being right._

It was true, Shuichi was a little frightened of seeing Hiro that way—pale and motionless, a sleep from which he'd never wake up. But it was also true that he'd never be able to live with himself if he didn't say a final farewell, even if Hiro wouldn't hear him no matter how loud he cried.

Yuki slowed down to let the young singer catch up. Shuichi gripped his hand.

"I'm scared."

Yuki didn't reply, didn't even glance in the distraught young man's direction, but he gave the tense hand a quick, reassuring squeeze, and that spoke more than Yuki would ever be capable of doing.

The casket was free of any elaborate decoration, made of simple mahogany polished to a dazzling sheen. Not black, Shuichi noted, grateful for that small blessing. Had it been black, he didn't think he could have made it any further.

He caught a glimpse of the body and stopped cold, stopped _breathing _for a terrifying moment. His eyes were wide. He couldn't do it, he couldn't take another step to that very embodiment of death, because seeing Hiro's body there would be the end of it, end of pretending, end of hope. Gazing upon his lifeless form would finally be admitting that his best friend was gone and never coming back.

He shouldn't have come. O God, he shouldn't have come here.

Yuki's eyes softened as he gently tugged the stunned youth forward. "It's okay," he whispered, "they just look like they're sleeping."

It was a lie, but a comforting one. Shuichi took the final steps towards the coffin.

It did look a little bit like he was sleeping, Shuichi supposed, only Hiro always snored and twitched when he slept. He was also pale, far too pale even with the funeral makeup attempting to imitate a faint blush on his cheeks. And, of course, there were remnants of the accident, gashes void of blood but nonetheless visibly crisscrossing any exposed part of his body.

It wasn't fair. His best friend was dead, and the macabre sight of his imitation of sleep was too much for Shuichi. He released Yuki's hand soundlessly and, stepping even closer to the coffin, close enough to trace the cuts that would never have a chance to become scars, he made a vow.

"I will find the bastard who did this to you," the young man whispered, angry tears clinging to his eyelashes as he clasped the cold hand in his own, "and I will make them pay." Eyes narrowed. "Oh, how I will make them pay."

TBC

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Ummmm... I'm weird?

I realize that Japanese funerary services are quite different from NA ones, but it's my fic and so I Americanized it P I figure, better stick to what I kind of know than what I don't know at all Oo;

And thank you for the kind reviews 3


	3. Part Three

Title: Monday Morning (3/5)  
Author: Kameko-chan  
Pairings: Strong Hiroshi Shuichi friendship, Hiro x ?, various canon  
Warnings: Deathfic  
Notes: Inspired by the Prozzak song of the same name

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Shuichi stared at the miscellaneous rubbish that littered the floor of Hiro's apartment. It was a comfortable mess, the kind that made a place look lived in. Even now, over three months after the guitarist's death, Shuichi almost felt as though Hiro might breeze through the door at any moment, slice of pizza in one hand and a Coke in the other. The only thing wrong with the whole picture was the guitar collecting dust in the corner.

There were four months left on Hiro's lease when he died, so his mother had been able to put off clearing out the apartment. Garbage cans had been emptied and the refrigerator was bare of food, courtesy of a hefty tip to the landlord, but little else had been disturbed. It was Shuichi's job to sort out the trash from the treasure.

How could any of it be trash?

_  
"This is starting to get ridiculous, you've barely left the house in two months. Tohma's been calling every day to find out what's going to happen to Bad Luck, but you haven't answered once. You look like sheer hell." A pause. "You have to get on with your life."_

_"There's no Bad Luck without Hiro. He knows that, tell him."_

_"It's not my band, Shuichi. You tell him."_

The police were unable to locate the vehicle that had struck Hiro. No one had seen the accident happen; Hiro wasn't found for over a quarter of an hour after he was hit, and after a fruitless search the case had been dropped. Shuichi's mind had gone numb at this announcement, denied the closure he so urgently needed. Whatever feeling that had been left in him was gone now. Even the tears wouldn't come anymore.

A picture of Hiro and himself stared at Shuichi from the nightstand. He picked it up and traced his friend's form lightly with his fingers, trying not to smudge the glass. There were others photos riddling the small bedside table: Hiro and Ayaka, Bad Luck, the latest Nakano family portrait, even a review for a play Hiro's brother Yuuzi had landed a small role in. The picture Shuichi held had been taken a few years ago, as was evident from the short ponytail he still donned and the bubblegum-pink hair. It was taken the night they were signed with N-G, when they'd gotten together to celebrate. They were so drunk when they took those pictures, both had forgotten about them until the film was developed. Some were not appropriate for public display, and they'd had a good laugh over that.

"What were you doing, Hiro?" Shuichi asked the frozen image as though it might hold some response, "why were you out there so late at night, alone?" It was the same question he asked himself every night before he fell asleep. He still didn't have the answers.

_  
"Leave me alone. What the fuck would you know about what I'm going through, Yuki?"_

_Shuichi's blood went cold at the look Yuki gave him. He desperately wished he could take back what he'd just said. There was silence for a breathlessly long moment._

_"Get out, Shuichi." The voice was flat, dead serious. "Come back if you ever decide to start living. Right now, I don't want to see your face. You bore me."_

The picture was delicately replaced on the nightstand before Shuichi collapsed on to the bed. The blankets smelled musty from disuse, much like the entire apartment did. He thought of opening a window, but self-pity and depression easily won out against common sense.

Why had he agreed to this? Shuichi was probably the _last _person who should be taking a trashcan to Hiro's apartment. Perhaps he could just put down another year on the lease and live there himself; it wasn't as though he had anywhere better to go. He could stay wrapped up in those blankets all day, living off the royalties from Bad Luck's albums, forgetting that he'd lost his best friend and that the love of his life didn't want to look at him anymore. Once the place had aired out, maybe it would even smell like it had in the old days. He'd heard once that scent was the strongest sense attached to memory; perhaps that was why smell of Yuki's favorite drink or Hiro's usual cologne would send him as close to tears as he could get these days.

_  
"Yuki... I didn't mean it, I swear. I'm sorry."_

_"I said, get out."_

_"Yuki, _please

_"Go. Now."_

A few tears managed to drip from the corners of his eyes, and Shuichi didn't know whether to thank them or curse them. It was emotion, it was more proof of feeling than he'd had in weeks, but _God _he was sick of crying. So, so sick of crying.

"I don't deserve any of this!" Shuichi screamed impulsively, heedless of the other tenants. "Why me? Why _him? _Jesus Christ, why any of it? _Jesus Christ..._" Shuichi was anything but religious, but the words couldn't come out any other way. "It's not _fair_, you son of a bitch, you hear me? It's not FAIR!"

He didn't know how long he screamed like that, all Shuichi knew for sure was that it was nearing dusk when he returned to his full senses. He'd been there for hours, then. His throat was raw and burning from the screaming and the crying and the muted whispers to someone who wasn't there to listen. He thought he might have fallen asleep, but time had become so skewed to him that there was no way of knowing for sure.

_  
"Where will I go?"_

_"I don't care, just get the fuck out."_

_And he did._

Shuichi wondered how it was possible that he felt even emptier now than when he'd arrived. He sat on the floor now, sheets and blankets pooled around him and tangled around his legs. He didn't remember moving from the bed.

He'd told himself that he was ready for this. He'd fooled himself into believing that he could finally accept the way things were, that as soon as all memories of Hiro were shunted off into the corners where he couldn't see them he'd forget the pain. Lies, all of it, lies to get him through the day, the pain was still as fresh as if the news report had been yesterday. Time could heal all wounds but his, it seemed.

Surely this wasn't normal grief. Shuichi had seen people mourn before, and it was never this deep, this lasting. Yes, he loved Hiro as much or more than he loved the members of his family, and he was Shuichi's closest friend in the world, but _why _was he still unable to function like a human being? It wasn't _right_, to feel that depressed all the time. It wasn't normal to feel like half of you was missing.

Shuichi didn't believe in soul mates, not really. He talked about gravitation sometimes, when he was telling someone about Yuki and himself, but that was... not quite the same. Gravitation was more an affliction of the heart, while this—thing, went deeper than that. It was like a disease of the soul.

Maybe he was just over-analyzing things.

Shuichi scowled at the blankets he'd dragged from the bed, tossed them aside. The whole situation was ridiculous. Hiro was dead, and crying himself into a stupor wasn't going to change that. All it had done so far was lose him everything he had.

"This is stupid." He was stupid.

"I can do this." He couldn't do this.

"All I have to do is start." Where to start?

Shuichi stood up, slowly, and made his way to the small window that overlooked the busy street below. He watched for a minute, as people scurried across crowded sidewalks and cars in every color of the rainbow flew by, he just watched and thought. Every one of those people walking past had loved and lost, had been through good times and bad. Some were worse off than others, and knew it. Some knew but didn't care. Yet others remained in blissful ignorance, living in the _now _rather than the _then_. Without a doubt, there were those beyond that window who'd been through worse than him. What did he have to complain about, really? His family was alive and well. He had a boyfriend who loved him, or the him he was behind the depression; no matter how harshly Yuki acted towards him, Shuichi knew that to be true. He was a rock star, with money to burn and fans across the country. And yet, it was those people on the street that had the strength to go on with their lives, despite the hardships, despite the struggle, and it was he who was alone in an empty apartment, looking out on a life he'd given up on.

No more.

Shuichi opened the window.

The crisp breeze on his face was like a much needed wake-up call. Shuichi inhaled as deeply as he could, filling his lungs with cool air in one graceful gasp. He exhaled slowly, almost savoring it, and the darkness and the sorrow lifted a little as bits of it left his body along with the CO2.

Shuichi did not feel happy, per say. After all, how could a little wind suddenly make things right with the world? It was not really the air that made the slight change in his attitude, though, it was more what it symbolized. He was still here, and life was still there, but... he had a connection with it again. He could smell the exhaust from the traffic, the faint, wet scent of spring, a fast food joint down the road.

He wasn't happy, but for the first time in a long while, Shuichi thought that maybe one day he would be.

After the first step, it was easy. He didn't throw away as much as he should have, he knew that, but there was plenty of time to work up from the smelly gym socks piled under the bed. Shuichi took a few things for himself, some of the pictures and a sheaf of papers that looked like lyrics and half-finished compositions. The guitar also came with him, simply because he knew having Hiro's favorite possession in the apartment would make his job all the more difficult the next time. The rest he left, to be packed into boxes or thrown out once he was able to part with it and then sorted through by Hiro's family.

It was near midnight by the time Shuichi called it quits. It was not that long a walk to his destination, so he decided to forgo the taxi, opting instead for a stroll in the moonlight. Some might think he was insane, cruising the city streets in the dead of night, but he knew the path from Hiro's apartment to Yuki's home intimately, and the bright evening was anything but threatening. This part of town was quiet in the dark hours, and the comfortable silence was soothing.

"Idiot. You could get mugged walking around alone at this time of night."

Shuichi nearly choked. A quick turn of his head and a familiar mop of scruffy blonde hair came into view. "Yuki?"

"Hiro's mother called looking for you. She wanted to know how you were doing, sorting out the apartment." The tall, fair author stepped out of the shadows of a nearby building. "When I told her you weren't there, she screamed at me and made me promise to go out looking for you."

"She's been a little on edge since... well, you know." Shuichi took a step forward, hesitant. "I'm sorry, Yuki," he whispered to the ground. "I've been acting pretty stupid."

Yuki laughed, drawing a cigarette from his pocket and lighting it in one fluid motion. "Yeah, you have been." He took a long drag, blowing a cloud of smoke in Shuichi's direction before walking towards his house. Shuichi stood and stared. What would he do now? He was so sure that Yuki would at least hear him out.

Yuki stopped halfway up the block and looked backwards. "Are you coming home or not?" he called out irritably.

Shuichi's eyes went wide in surprise. The shock lasted only a moment, and then he smiled, a real smile, and ran back to his life.

TBC

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Gah, sorry this took so long. And I'm sorry that it's disjointed and weird. The next chapter will be better, it's the one I've been looking forward to doing since I started!

I don't know what Hiro's living conditions are, or how far away Yuki's place is, but it's my story and I'll make them live near each other.


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